


all the world's magic comes directly from the mouth

by 9_miho



Series: Leaves of flowers and lines [2]
Category: Frozen (2013)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Genderbending, Genderswap, Narrative Causality is a pain, Rule 63
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:08:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3774961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/9_miho/pseuds/9_miho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A tale creeps at your heels,” the old woman repeated quietly. “And you must be kind and clever and strong or it will throw you to the wolves and let them rip you to pieces.”</p><p>Those words came to haunt Kirsten, absurdly enough when she was being chased by wolves while couriering the oddest passenger she’d ever taken (shiny medals clinking on that chest and a too young face, too big eyes, never mind that she wasn’t a crone, not yet. And had that been real gold rope on his shoulders?).</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the world's magic comes directly from the mouth

"Once upon a time," she said,  
and the world began anew:  
a vee of geese flew by,  
plums roasting in their breasts;  
a vacant-eyed princess  
sat upon a hillock of glass;  
a hut strolled through a tangled wood,  
the nails on its chickenfeet  
blackened and hard as coal;  
a horse's head proclaimed advice  
from the impost of an arch;  
one maiden spoke in toads,  
another in pearls,  
and a third with the nightingale's voice.  
If you ask me,  
I would have to say  
all the world's magic  
comes directly from the mouth.  
\- “Once Upon A Time, She Said,” Jane Yolen

 

There was an old woman who lived in the mountains who sheltered Kirsten and Sven in exchange for smoked meat or dried fish or bits of crystal. They would sit in a close, warm cabin of stone and woven branches covered in skins. Sven would have a lump of ice on his head, mournfully contemplating a present without carrots, as Kirsten and the old woman would sip tea made with berries and chew on what dried rations Kirsten would usually have on hand. The old woman brewed silence that settled on the shoulders and head like a blanket and Kirsten found no issue with that.

But one day, the old woman took a roll of skin from a dark corner and unfurled it in front of Kirsten. The words on it were- strange. They were not like the script in a book – not lines of neat print. No, these letters and phrases were in spirals and she could not look at them too long because she had the feeling that the script was reading her while she tried to read them.

The old woman pressed her finger on the center of the words and then started to laugh, a creaky wheezing sound that made Kirsten’s skin crawl because it was like a whistle that hadn’t been used or cleaned for far too long. 

The woman grinned a gap-toothed smile at Kirsten. Then she put her hand atop Kirsten’s. She said, “A tale creeps on your heels. Oh, what a tale it is!”

Kirsten frowned at the words, practically the most words the old woman had ever offered to her in one breath. “Thanks but-”

The old woman clucked her tongue behind her teeth and turned the skin around and around, gnarled fingers tracing the words. Then she looked up and met Kirsten’s eyes, the mad mirth gone now. “Sometimes, strength alone will not be enough,” the old woman said. “And the cold… how it preserves. But human hearts- they are not just for preserving.”

The old woman then squeezed Kirsten’s hand with gnarled fingers that were like old, deep roots – almost as hard and tough as stone but still with life clinging deep inside of them. In the firelight, her eyes were not pale blue but something closer to violet. The room smelled particularly of burning pine resin, hot and sharp and a bit bitter.

“A tale creeps at your heels,” the old woman repeated quietly. “And you must be kind and clever and strong or it will throw you to the wolves and let them rip you to pieces.”

Those words came to haunt Kirsten, absurdly enough when she was being chased by wolves while couriering the oddest passenger she’d ever taken (shiny medals clinking on that chest and a too young face, too big eyes, never mind that she wasn’t a crone, not yet. And had that been real gold rope on his shoulders?). But she thought of those dratted words – giggle-laced and somber and echoing just so peculiarly – when she saw eyes gleam and jaws slaver in ways that seemed wholly unnatural, even as she snarled a formless but heartfelt curse and kicked one leaping wolf out of the air. 

Then there was no time to think of tales, only the moment and perhaps the one that may immediately follow. She hoisted her passenger onto Sven and cut the harness, even as he yelped that he was a boy and he would be fine, really. And Kirsten’s only thought not about saving their skins and staving off sheer terror was that she wouldn’t see a silly soft fool of a too rich boy dead on her watch, not when he’d bothered to pay her up front (in carrots and tools grossly overpriced, no doubt).

A woman had to have Standards after all.

Or so she told herself later as he wheezed and she panted while looking down at the merrily crackling remnants of the sled for one last time. Kirsten gritted her teeth and turned on her heel because if she did not think about it-

“I’m sorry- I mean…” the boy started.

“I’d just finished paying that off,” she said with admirably less venom or pain than she currently felt in alternate turns, in waves of cold and hot.

Thankfully, he only said, “Oh.” He followed after her. 

Ah yes, Standards, she thought bitterly.

Which then made her say, quietly, “Thanks. For back there with the wolves.” Thankfully even a wolf couldn’t quite bite through her boots and multiple layers of socks, though her calf was starting to ache and throb through the cooling rush fear turning to relief.

“So much for bad judgment, right?” he asked.

Kirsten snorted. “Broken clock can be right twice a day,” she replied dryly and smiled to herself at his wordless, sputtering outrage as she easily outpaced him even with a sore leg. Once the sun rose high enough to turn the world around them from silver to gray to pink and gold, she found that she didn’t feel quite so sore anymore.

And then they found the talking snowman and in Kirsten’s mind, that was officially when she was no longer at the reins but only clinging on for dear life in the story that swept everything like an avalanche.

 

_Flower meaning of pine: Compassion, pity_


End file.
